The Hours In-between
by ElReyCiervo
Summary: There are times where Allen's mind races from him, between the almost ethereal period between night and dawn. He always sees Kanda during these times, but this moment in particular threatens to swallow him in fear, pain, and despair.


_Disclaimer_ : I do not own D. Gray-Man

 _Warning_ : violence typical to series.

I honestly was not planning on writing this. This started as a 200 word drabble on my phone, but then it grew to this thing. Anyway, here's a thing to prove I'm still active-I hope you all enjoy it! (I will be continuing my longer fics during winter break.)

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The Hours In-between

There are times where Allen's mind races from him, between the almost ethereal period between night and dawn. The constant struggle to hoard himself, his conscious mind, to his physical body is an exhausting challenge, one that he must trudge through every day. Somehow, Johnny's voice had pierced through the water-thick depths of himself, allowing him to break free…allowing him to come back. He doesn't know how this happened, doesn't know why, but is eternally relieved that he is the one moving his body, not Neah.

The parasite inside him has been quiet since his return, no visions clouding his eyes nor snide comments in the back of his mind.

He would like to keep it that way.

However, it is in these between-hours where he is restless and near anxious, overworked brain fighting his equally exhausted body. Now, fists clenching lightly in the paper-thin sheets of their rented room, he takes a breath in an attempt to calm himself. His mismatched hands shake and his vision swims. Bone-deep exhaustion coupled with a mind in his state is the chemical formula for his own destruction.

 _But, this is not unfamiliar_ , he thinks with derision.

Like many other nights, he feels like he is in limbo, trying to burst free from the fathoms of everything negative keeping him down. He is not sure whether he is awake or asleep, but a soft snore coming from him side makes him aware of his bed partner. Silky, raven hair spills over the pillows as the owner shifts, turning slightly to reveal tanned skin and a tattooed chest and shoulder. Crack-like scars, almost white in appearance, stand out on the other's body in the pale moonlight that is flooding their room. North America had been a difficult experience for the both of them, one close to dying, collapsing in shattered pieces, and himself nearly dissolving away for good, being swallowed by the enemy he is not supposed to be.

No other scars mar the beautiful person.

Allen knows this person well, the body even better. He has argued with Kanda until he was blue in the face and has held the taller form in his arms when the other needed it. Working together, talking together, and struggling to survive together has brought forth an intimacy that Allen never expected in his life. This intimacy, the particular kind of someone trusting you and having someone to put his own faith in, is addicting and terrifying all at the same time. It is this same level of closeness that plagues him during these in-between-hours.

He is never sure if he is awake or asleep—trapped between a nightmare, daydream, or reality—but he sees Kanda in every moment. Despite the Church praising the benevolence and mercy of God, the deity seems to hate Allen with a passion.

Every moment he sees Kanda, he sees the other collapsed at his feet, unmoving and not breathing. Like a passenger in the backseat of a carriage, he is victim to watching his own body move without his consent, deadly and savage. He sees his own hands, one human and the color of alabaster and the other a weapon and the color of sleek black, stained and dripping with hot blood. Horror clutches his heart like a desperate robber and his shivering has nothing to do with cold. He is close to being ill. A dam of memories surges, immediately showing him Kanda yelling at him to come back, trying to disarm him, fighting against him, eventually pleading on wet breaths not to kill him…and then, lastly, dying with metal talons obliterating his core-heart. The feeling of sick satisfaction that is not his own fills him, causing him to shudder.

The intimacy that he craves and revels in proves itself to be the key to Kanda's downfall.

His face feels wet, but he is not sure if it is from tears, sweat, or both. He is here and not here. Sticky nails drag against his face in a desperate attempt to scratch away the smile that, again, is not his. How could he have destroyed Kanda? Every grunt, every huff, every snide comment, every touch, and every rare, genuine smile or laugh to come from the taller man…gone. All because of him.

The memory of Kanda's last breath and the sound of his core-heart breaking in Allen's weaponized hand plays over and over without relent. He wants to scream and rage and cry, but his body will not move under his command, but rather through another's. He is disappearing, being swallowed alive by Neah once again, and at this point, he just wants to die. Kanda was the one supposed to hold him back, the one to stop him if the Noah took over, the one that was going to be there for him. Now his lovely Kanda is gone because of him, because of—

"—Allen…?"

Who is calling his name?

He blinks, and suddenly the blood and paralysis melt away. The thin sheets have shifted around him, though are still held captive by his clenched fists. The smell of copper does not hang in the air, but rather the smell of wood—even more prevalent, the familiar scent of green tea and soap.

"…Allen?"

Tears sting his eyes and his breath is stolen from him. _I know that voice, I know that voice_. He swallows, the overwhelming feeling of relief threatening to make him break down. Next to him is Kanda alive and breathing, looking at him with a pinched gaze. In any other occasion, Allen would have teased and said the other was constipated, yet jesting has no home in the room right now. Currently, he knows the particular set of the other's jaw and the furrow in his brow meant great concern and worry, not anger. The stubborn exorcist was just too proud to say it in words, however.

He opens his mouth to speak, but the only thing that comes out is a broken, keening noise. Kanda reaches for him and silently pulls him close, caring but not pitying. It is a slow motion, comforting. No matter what, his older companion treats him as equal, despite their spats and banter. With an amount of strength that it should not have taken, Allen unclenches his fists and brings them to rest on the other's arms. Ghosting over the red stigmata on Kanda's inner forearms with his thumbs, he realizes that he is shaking. Kanda is warm against him—being a Second Exorcist gives him an elevated body temperature—and it is this heat that helps ground Allen to the here and now.

Without prompt, Kanda speaks. "I woke up and you were staring in some kind of daze, Moyashi." Softer, he continues, "You wouldn't snap out of it."

This has happened before, and he is not proud of it. Despite that, Kanda knows not to tell him how much time he has lost. In response, he just presses himself closer to Kanda, resting his face against the heated, bare skin of neck.

The number of hours lost are growing more and more concerning each day.

Allen prays to the God who hates him—and who he is gaining an even greater dislike towards—and begs for Kanda to stay in his life. He has loved people as just friends, such as Johnny, Lenalee, Lavi, and others, and he has loved deeply in the familial sense, Mana as the very first and dearest and then the people of the Order.

But, it is in the hours in-between night and dawn where he comes across a startling, though not unwelcomed realization:

Kanda loves him, and Allen loves him back.

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 _Published_ : 12/1/17

 _A/N:_ I was in a particular mood, so I vented through writing angst. If you want more Yullen stuff, check out my tumblr: badlydrawnyullen . tumblr . com


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